I disappear

I know, I have been neglecting my writing and I continue to hope for at least a modicum of time to myself to try to explain to myself what has been happening in my life. Right now, I am happy, or at least the better description is satisfied. I have made several changes to my life and I feel good about it.

But then, there is so much to explain, so much I wish I had time to digest and make sense of. So much I simply must deal with for the survival of my sanity. I do not have time, I keep on saying. I do not have the luxury of writing right now, I convince myself.

The truth?

The truth is that I’m exhausted of trying to make sense of stuff that simply makes no sense. And more often than not, I’m tired of the lies people tell to placate themselves and others into thinking that it’s all ok, when under the surface it really isn’t and no-one says anything. I’m tired of not calling it like I see it and treating people diplomatically, telling them what they want to hear and being who they expect me to be for them.

I’m tired of my own shortcomings and staring at myself in the mirror every day with disdain. I am tired of the sacrifices I have to make and the people who abuse my caring heart. I am tired of being cast aside by the guy because I am not pretty enough. I am tired of actually liking that guy. I am tired of people not realising their actions have consequences and I am tired of being strong when I have every reason to fall apart. I am tired of people judging me. Tired of taking the moral high ground while others tell stories. Tired of the expectations placed on me and tired of the constant inconsistency of my bank balance. I am tired of working myself to death and tired of going out and partying. I’m tired of feeling guilty for wanting what I want.

I want what I want for a change. I want to be selfish and not care about your problems. I don’t even want to hear about it. I have been drowned in other people’s issues and my own have been shoved in a box to be dealt with always later. Because you assume that I am happy, you assume I am well put together and that my frankness and my honesty means what you see is what you get.

If you all stopped yakking on about your own troubles and stopped trying to win the ‘who has been through more in life’ competition, you may find that there is a lot you don’t know, a lot I don’t talk about. Sure, I’ll tell you the stories of my life, but what you really ought to know is the beatings of my heart.

I am not writing because for the first time in a long time I do not see the point. I do not want to tell you what is going on in my heart and in my head because you do not care. That is the simple truth. I care about others, I care to the point where I always get hurt, but I am some weird exception to the rule. People do not actually care. They mimic caring, sure, but so fickle they are and so quick to betray and abuse my care, then toss me aside and leave.

People always leave.

I am not writing, because you do not want to hear what I really have to say.